I climb out and immediately stumble over one of the many boxes that are littering the room. Misha had asked last night whether they were part of some new design trend. I’d replied that I hoped I didn’t catch his old-aged pensioner vibe by osmosis, because it would be very inconvenient for my lifestyle.

I look at the old navy corduroy beanbag in the corner of the room and my lip twitches. It had made an appearance on my first night here when he marched in and threw it in the corner, saying that doss hole wasn’t quite the vibe he was going for with the flat.

I sigh with happiness at the warmth in the room and queue up my Christmas playlist. It’s not my Saturday for working, so I’ve got the whole day off to get everything unpacked and feeling homey. But first—tea and tablets.

I grab my medication and swallow it with a big gulp of water. I was horrified when I’d learned that I’d have to take medication for the rest of my life. My mum’s a total hippie and has always relied on natural remedies for everything, and that’s the way I was brought up. It took a long time to get my medication sorted. So many different types of pills and so many different doses. It was a bit like being experimented on. And each tablet seemed to give me different side effects. Hello to migraines, vomiting, constipation, and my personal favourite, impotence. Luckily, none of them stayed around, but it was a bloody awful time.

I pull on a pair of pyjama shorts and, winding my hair up in a top-knot, I wander out of the room, only to come to a complete stop. I barely manage not to swallow my tongue at the sight of Misha.

He’s walking out of his bedroom dressed in only a towel. The navy-coloured fabric hugs his lean hips and accentuates his sleek olive skin. He’s obviously just got out of the shower because water droplets decorate his chest. I swallow hard. His broad hairy chest. I’m fascinated. I haven’t seen Misha nearly nude in a few years and the last time was in a changing room, and he was very skinny then. Now he’s all lean lines and tight muscles.

“I imagine this is what David Gandy must feel like,” comes an amused voice.

“Hmm,” I say absentmindedly. Misha has very tight V lines. He’s like a statue.

“Yes, I imagine that David frequently has to say, ‘My eyes are up here, Charlie.’”

That gets through my fog. “Why would he be saying that to me? Why on earth would I want to look at David Gandy’s eyes when there’s so much other treasure to view?”